


could never define all that you are to me

by alrightamanda



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Blood and Injury, Gun Violence, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alrightamanda/pseuds/alrightamanda
Summary: Jon Lovett goes missing at 9:45 in the morning on Friday. It takes four days, thirteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes for him to come home.
Relationships: Ronan Farrow/Jon Lovett
Comments: 36
Kudos: 50





	1. FRIDAY Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a long one kids so strap in - more chapters are coming.  
Big thanks to Delaney for the notes and edits.
> 
> Title comes from Hozier's 'Movement'

_ Jon Lovett goes missing at 9:45 in the morning on Friday. It takes four days, thirteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes for him to come home. _

* * *

Ronan wakes at the sound of Pundit woofing softly at their bedroom door. Jonathan groans into his pillow, shifting until his face is pressed into Ronan’s shoulder.

“If you take her out right now, and let me sleep for another fifteen minutes, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh? What if I want you to go get us coffee?”

“I was thinking of something a little sexier than coffee but I’m flexible.”

“Kinky,” Ronan replies with a kiss to Jonathan’s curls and one to his cheek for good measure. “Sleep, baby. No strings attached.”

“I knew I was marrying you for a reason.”

Ronan chuckles as he rolls out of bed, Pundit circling his feet in an attempt to herd him out the door faster, “I’m moving, Pundy. I know, you have to go, let’s go.”

After Pundit has been fed and watered, moving to lay in a sunbeam on the couch, and a pot of coffee has been set to percolate, Ronan makes his way back upstairs to Jonathan, warm and pliant under the covers of their bed. He stops at the entrance to their bedroom and leans against the door-jamb to take in the sight of his sleeping fiancé. Ronan’s chest aches with how much he loves the man in front of him, even if he does steal the covers. 

“I can feel you looking at me, you creep. Stop being so weird and come back to bed.”

“Yes, dear.”

* * *

“It’s Friday, so all we’ll be doing is editing last night’s show and maybe a staff meeting, so I should be home pretty early. Tommy and Jon might want all of us to go out for drinks after work, but I may beg off so we can have a quiet night in, just the two of us. I know you’re working on writing today, but please remember to take Pundit out every few hours. You could even take her for a walk, which frankly, would be good for both of you. I’ll keep you posted on what the plan is and call you when I’m leaving work, okay?”

“I feel like a 50s housewife, seeing her husband off to work while she toils around the house all day.”

“Honestly, if you felt like vacuuming, I wouldn’t hate it.”

“Go, Jonathan. I’ll see you later.”

“I love you, baby. I’ll see you later. Bye, Pundit! Be good for your dad today!”

“We love you too. Now go! You’re already late.”

Ronan can’t help the laugh that escapes him as Jonathan runs back up to him and kisses him, hard and definitely not long enough, before finally running to his car, and pulling down the driveway, the gate closing behind him. He stares after the car, Pundit at his feet, as it drives out of sight, before sighing and turning away, “C’mon, angel, it’s just you and me today.”

* * *

It’s not unusual for Jonathan to go a few hours without answering Ronan’s texts, but when lunchtime passes without a word, or even a tweet from Jonathan, Ronan starts feeling a little concerned. He thinks about calling the Crooked office to make sure Jonathan is okay and it’s just a busier-than-expected day, but thinks better of it when he remembers that he should be doing his own work instead of obsessing over why his partner, _ his fiancé, _ hasn’t texted him back. He sends Jonathan a meme on Twitter that makes him laugh, then closes the tab after five minutes, when he realizes he’s obsessively checking for the ‘ _ seen by Jon Lovett✓ _’ designation to pop up.

“This isn’t middle school,” he says to Pundit. “Your father is probably just busy.”

As the hours pass, Ronan loses himself in writing and it’s not until 3:30 that he looks at the clock and decides that he could use a break and Pundit could use a walk. 

Maybe it’s his paranoia from being surveilled for so long or maybe he’s seen too many true crime movies, but the van parked a few streets over from the house feels a bit too suspicious, and they make their way back home.

“I’m sorry, angel. We can go for a hike tomorrow if your dad is up for it. We’ll both have to do our best to convince him,” he looks into her sad eyes and can’t help but bend down to scritch at her soft head. “Let’s get home and maybe by the time we get back, your dad will be home.”

* * *

At 7 o’clock, Ronan breaks and calls Spencer. 

“Hey, man. Jon said you guys would be busy tonight but might be free tomorrow. Something come up? I’m free now if - ”

“Spencer, this is going to sound insane, but have you heard from Jon at all today?” Ronan knows it’s rude to cut people off in the middle of a sentence, but there’s an urgency he cannot seem to shake.

If Spencer is startled by Ronan’s behavior, he hides it well, “Not since last night. Why?”

“I haven’t heard from him all day, and it’s probably nothing, but I can’t shake this bad feeling I have.”

“Well keep me posted, okay? It’s not like him to go silent for so long without at least complaining to one of us about how hard it is to be off-grid.”

Ronan appreciates Spencer for making him laugh, even if ever so briefly, “Thanks, I will. While I try a few more people, would you mind asking around if anyone has heard from him? I don’t want to be a bother, but -“

“Of course. I’ll let you know after I’ve spoken to everyone.”

“Thanks, Spencer. I’m going to try Jon and Tommy next to make sure he’s not just stuck at the office or already out for drinks and I’m getting worked up over nothing. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Talk to you soon."

Ronan hangs up and takes a steadying breath before calling Favreau. He hopes and prays that he’s just being silly and Jonathan simply has his phone off and forgot to call. He prays that this is all just a misunderstanding and in a few moments his fiancé will steal the phone out of Favreau’s hand to rant about something vitally important. He hopes his anxiety is wrong.

“Hey, Ronan! Lovett said earlier this week that you were busy with a deadline but if you two want, we’re meeting Tommy and Hanna for dinner at 8 and-“

“So Jon wasn’t at the office when you left?” Ronan knows he’s being rude, interrupting Favs like this, but he has a knot in his stomach and the sooner it’s belayed the better. 

“What? No, he wasn’t at the office. I thought he was working from home today. He texted last night about_ Lovett or Leave It _ going late and how he might work from home today but would keep me posted. When he didn’t show up this morning, Tommy and I just assumed he was working from home. Travis was pissed though, apparently Lovett wasn’t on the document they were working on - Hey, you okay? Ronan? Ronan?”

The phone slips from Ronan’s hand and clatters to the floor. Pundit jolts up from the couch at the sound, but Ronan barely notices, his vision tunneling and his ears building with a roaring noise that washes out an increasingly distressed Favs still coming from the phone. He doesn’t realize that the ragged gasps breaking through the deafening buzz in his ears are coming from him until Pundit jumps up to lick at the limp hand hanging at his side. His knees give out, sending him to the ground, back against the fridge in the kitchen. Pundit crawls into his lap and licks his face as he buries his fingers in her fur. He knows he should do something. Get off the floor. Call the Favreaus back. Call Tommy. Call _ the police. _ But the only thought that runs through his head is a constant refrain, _ ‘Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan.’ _

* * *

_ Ronan knew he would discover unpleasant truths in his reporting. He had been so for years, even before he made the move to _ The New Yorker _ . Even so, he never thought he would discover what the documents he now holds tell him: Jonathan had been a target. He had been watched, his house had been watched, his movements were followed, his routine was noted. He was lucky, Ronan supposed, that the subcontractor found Jonathan’s everyday life to be “boring” and not worth the effort. But the idea of someone tracking Jonathan’s routine and movements to target Ronan was terrifying. _

_ How do you tell the love of your life, whose heart you’ve almost broken countless times over the course of the last year and a half, that his privacy had been invaded, because of you? Ronan didn’t know, but he knew that Jonathan needed to know the truth. Jonathan deserved the truth. _

_ “Jonathan, I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.” _

_ Ronan’s heart briefly breaks at the flash of fear in Jonathan’s eyes before he launches into a joke meant to diffuse the tension that really only emphasizes his fears, “You know, breaking up with me after we just bought a house together might not be the smartest decision. I thought you were a genius, Farrow.” _

_ “I’m not leaving you, Jonathan, and this really is serious.” _

_ He settles down on the couch next to Ronan, finally affecting an appropriately serious mien, “This isn’t going in the piece I’m working on about Gorka’s Echo Chamber Conspiracy memo, but it does have to do with why Gorka wrote the memo in the first place.” _

_ “I’m still livid that he didn’t include me in the memo. Am I not good enough to be in a secret cabal of liberals trying to undermine Trump? I practically invented the cabal! My name is on the incorporating documents! They’re publicly available! How stupid is Gorka? If he can’t even do a basic Google search - ” _

_ “Jonathan.” _

_ “Sorry, continue.” _

_ Ronan takes a deep breath, running a hand through Pundit’s fur, bracing himself before looking into the trusting eyes of the person he loves most in the world, “Baby, you weren’t in Gorka’s memo because you had already been surveilled by Dylan Howard and AMI and they couldn’t find anything incriminating on you. They followed you. They tracked your movements. They watched the house. They learned everything they could about you. Everything.” _

_ Jonathan goes blank for a few seconds as he processes the implications of Ronan’s statement. He knows his partner well enough to pinpoint the exact moment it hits Jonathan that this is as serious as Ronan is trying to make it out to be. His breathing becomes more audible, picking up speed, his pupils dilating as panic sets into his body. _

_ Ronan grabs for his hands, holding them firmly, and murmurs reassurances and sweet nothings to ground Jonathan. Ronan anchors his partner there, in their home, and not wherever it is Jonathan goes when the panic pulls him under. _

_ When it’s apparent that they’ve staved off the worst of the anxiety, Ronan continues more pointedly, “They started surveilling you when I was doing my pieces on the stories AMI and the Inquirer caught and killed. They wanted to find something on you to use as blackmail against me, but they couldn’t find anything worthwhile on you, honey. Your record is so spotless and you’re so dedicated to your work that there was nothing they could remotely hold over me. You weren’t included in Gorka’s memo because the Trump Administration had already been in contact with Howard and knew there wasn’t anything to be found on you.” _

_ Jonathan’s breathing evens out at the assurances that he’s safe and Ronan continues, “But in the interest of full disclosure, the only reason why Crooked Media is on their radar is because they were trying to find dirt on you to use against me, and discovered a whole network of liberals spreading information to the people.” _

_ His eyes, which were locked on Pundit’s golden fur, snap back to Ronan, widening, “So my friends and colleagues were put on watch because of me?” _

_ “No! Jonathan, you were all surveilled because of me. My work put you in danger and I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so -“ _

_ “Ronan,” Jonathan interjects, squeezing Ronan’s hands hard, “If it’s not my fault that my friends were targeted, then it’s definitely not your fault that as multinational media corporation stooped to surveilling reporters and their partners as an intimidation tactic.” _

_ All of the tension flows out of Ronan at Jon’s words, ‘ _ He’s not mad at you. He’s not going to leave you over this. He hasn’t left yet. This wouldn’t break them. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you _ ,’ he repeats the words to himself over and over until they stick. _

_ After a few minutes of silence, the two of them matching their breathing and getting lost in the monotony of petting Pundit, Jonathan finally blurts out, “They really couldn’t find anything on me? Nothing? How can I be boring when I’ve been to escape rooms?” _

_ Ronan can’t help his laughter at Jonathan’s joke. After so many years together, he’s wired to find any joke Jonathan tells funny, no matter how grave the circumstances. _

_ It was going to be okay. They would update their security measures, install new systems in the LA house and the penthouse in New York, the LA house has a gate with code anyway, and they would be more careful. Nothing would happen to either of them, and in time they would be able to look back and laugh with sincerity at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. _

_ When, a year later, Ronan puts the accounts of surveillance in his book, he includes it with a question for Jonathan. A question and an answer to tell the world that they’re in it for the long haul. It doesn’t matter what the tabloids cook up, they’re it, and they can’t be intimidated into silence. _

_ It never occurs to either of them that the information gathered by the Inquirer could be even more damaging than simple blackmail if in the hands of the wrong people. _

* * *

Pundit’s barking jerks Ronan out of his memories before the handle on the front door even turns. 

“_ Ronan _ ? _ Lovett _?”

It’s Emily and, by the sound of it, she has Jon and Leo with her. 

Ronan tries to reply, but his mouth can’t seem to form any words, beyond a pained whimper. At the sound of his distress, Pundit runs back to where he’s still sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning against the fridge, and climbs up to lick at the tears drying on his cheeks, as Emily and Jon hurry in after her. 

“Ronan, you cut off in the middle of our call and it sounded like you dropped your phone. What’s going on? Why are you on the floor? Are you okay? Where’s Lovett?” Jon’s questioning has a frantic edge and Ronan can feel his momentary calm start to slip away.

“He’s gone. They took him and he’s gone.”

The Favreaus stop their rapid questioning and exchange a startled look. Emily crouches down to Ronan’s level and takes his hand that isn’t holding Pundit, “Honey, what do you mean ‘he’s gone’? Who would take him? Where did they go?”

A frantic sob rips itself from Ronan, “He left for work this morning and said he would be back early because we were going to spend the night in and he didn’t call over lunch and he didn’t call before leaving work and he didn’t come home and so I called you and you said he didn’t even make it to work,” his cries are coming harder and his breathing is picking up speed again. “Someone took him and he’s gone, Emily, he’s gone and someone took him.”

Emily places her hands firmly on either side of Ronan’s face, forcing him to make eye contact with her and only her. “Ronan, I need you to breathe with me. In for four. Out for four. In for four. Out for four. That’s it, honey,” Emily speaks softly, keeping her voice even and grounding him in reality.

“Ronan, when did you last see Lovett? When did he leave the house this morning?” Her voice is all business, but there’s a soft shake to her hands that gives her own anxieties away. 

“He left around 9:30 this morning, he was running late and was debating whether or not to even go in today since all he would be doing was editing last night’s taping, but decided it would be better to be there. He said he would be home early and that he would call before he left the office to ask what I wanted to do for dinner. He usually calls over lunch and when he didn’t I just figured he got caught up in a meeting.”

Jon cuts him off before he can spiral again, “Ronan, why do you think Lovett was taken?”

“Because we considered it a possibility.”

“How was it even something you considered?”

“Because we knew! We knew surveillance was painfully serious and so we talked about it! We were scared shitless! We knew that after we were both surveilled, that there was a possibility that someone could take the next step and act physically, but we always assumed it would be me. It never crossed our minds that someone would stoop to taking Jonathan,” his voice cracks on the name like a weight on his throat. 

“But why would someone take him now?”

“Because they know the piece I’m finishing could ruin them. The piece is on national security and the various forces working to undermine it at every level. Whichever entity is behind this must be desperate to get me to stop the piece from being published,” he doesn’t say the next part out loud, but it rings in the silence, ‘_ And they’re right. I would do anything for Jonathan. Anything.’ _A numbness falls over Ronan and Pundit snuggles herself even closer. 

“What am I going to do, Em? I want him back. I need him.”

“We’re going to get him back.”

* * *

It isn’t long before Spencer rushes into the house, Tommy and Hanna not far behind with Lucca bolting into the fray ahead of them, fear etched on their faces. Emily and Jon had called them after the abrupt end to Jon’s call with Ronan and asked for everyone to meet at Lovett’s house. After filling the Vietors and Spencer in on the situation, they all agree that time is of the essence. Emily tasks Ronan with calling the police while the rest of them start calling Jon’s friends to see if they heard from him at any point over the day, to better pinpoint when he was taken. 

As Tommy and Jon help Spencer in calling all of Jon’s friends, Ronan takes a deep breath and, while Hanna squeezes his hand in support, dials 9-1-1. 

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

The fog that held Ronan so tightly releases all at once, tears once again spilling down his cheeks, breath coming in short gasps as the reality of the situation sinks in. Saying it out loud, to a complete stranger, made it all the more real.

“Hello? I need you to tell me what’s wrong. Can you breathe for me? I need to know what’s happening.”

“They took him.”

“Who did they take? Who is ‘they’?”

A sense of _ deja vu _ passes over Ronan and he pauses before the words spill out like they had with the Favreaus earlier, “My fiancé. They took my fiancé, he’s gone and he was taken, please, his name is Jonathan Lovett, you have to do something, anything, he’s missing. He’s been missing since this morning but we didn’t know he went missing I thought he was at work and his friends thought he was working from home and it’s been hours now and we didn’t know he was missing, please, you have to help.”

Emily rubs circles on his back while Hanna grips his hand, both grounding him in attempts to stop the panic from overwhelming him again. 

“Where are you now?”

Ronan rattles off the address and before he can resume begging for the operator's help, they tell him that they’re sending an officer over but he might have to come down to the LAPD. Ronan agrees and asks the operator if they’ll stay on the line until the officer arrives, “I called friends and they’re here with me, but would you stay with me too? Please?”

The operator’s voice is soft and sure in their response, “Of course. Whatever I can do.”

* * *


	2. FRIDAY Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The extent of my police and law enforcement knowledge comes from knowing lawyers and television and I refused to research anything that would mitigate this glaring oversight.  
Thank you to Bailey, Ana, and Delaney for edits.  
Enjoy - we're in it now.

Detective Marisa Ramirez of the LAPD’s West Hollywood precinct is having a reasonably quiet evening. Friday nights don’t usually pick up until around midnight and, at 8 o’clock, it’s still fairly early. The podcast she’s playing to pass the time cuts off when a call comes in. 

_ “Ramirez: We need you to investigate a possible abduction. The Person-of-Interest, a ‘Jonathan Lovett’, has been missing since this morning and his fiancé is at the house and still on the phone with 9-1-1. We need you to bring them to the station to file a Missing Persons Report and take their statement.” _

“On my way.”

For the record, Detective Ramirez denies any excitement at finally having something to do that isn’t DUI-related or straight paperwork. Yes, abductions are terrifying and a race against the clock, but this is why she joined the force: to help people in their times of need. 

When she pulls up to the given address, she notes the gate at the driveway and the cars parked out front along the street. She approaches the PIN pad at the gate, presses the call button, and identifies herself as an LAPD Detective to the woman who answers. As Ramirez reaches the front door, she is immediately greeted by the woman she assumes just opened the gate. 

The woman is young, probably late 20s or early 30s, with straight blonde hair and big eyes that are red and puffy from the apparent distress that choreographs her every move. This must be the aforementioned fiancé. 

“Miss, I am Detective Ramirez with the LAPD. May I come in?”

“Of course. I’m Emily. I wish I could say it’s nice to meet you but,” she trails off with a grimace, the rest of her sentence unnecessary. 

“I understand.”

Three small dogs, two golden and one brown, run to Ramirez as she crosses the threshold, a number of panicked voices calling after them as they reach her feet, each clambering to get her attention. 

“_ Pundit! Leo! Lucca!” _

_ “ _Get down! Let the nice detective in!”

Ramirez knows she’s there in an official capacity for a serious situation but the dogs are so cute and wriggly that she can’t help but bend down and pet each of them. 

“So sorry about them, we’ve had a rough night, and they’re a bit worked up,” a male voice apologizes to her from above. 

“It’s no problem at all. I am always happy to see such wonderful dogs even if it’s not under the best of circumstances,” she stands back up and looks around the room, cataloguing each of the six people present. 

If Ramirez had to describe the people in the room she would call them ‘beautiful’. Distressed and fearful, yes, but beautiful. Maybe not beautiful in the way people in Hollywood are every day but rather all of them are simply stunning. There’s Emily, the fiancé whom she met at the door, and next to her is a tall man in his late 30s, his hair is greying at his temples and in his 5 o’clock shadow, but his skin is smooth and unblemished in a way that not even L.A. can recreate. Leaning on the arm of the couch is another man in his late 30s, just as enviously wrinkle-free and angular as his friend, but where the other man is trim with darker hair, this one is blond and more muscular. The chair across from the couch holds a man around the age of the first two, he’s not as tall as the other men but he’s lankier than either of them and his features look distinctly gaunt from the stress of the evening. On the couch sits a man and a woman who is gripping his hand tightly in both of hers. The dogs have abandoned Ramirez in favor of piling on the couch, with the smaller of the golden-doodles wedging itself under the man’s free hand, almost as if to comfort him. The woman is around Emily’s age with the shiniest dark hair Ramirez has ever seen and just as slight in stature as Emily. Her tan skin is unnaturally pale with anxiety. Her companion is the only person Ramirez would describe as ‘Hollywood’. Not in the new age sense of Marvel superheroes, but rather an Old Hollywood, where only the most naturally striking and handsome people were even considered acceptable for the world to see. His astoundingly smooth skin compliments his high cheekbones, full lips, bright blue eyes, and soft blond hair. He looks familiar, but she can’t place where she knows him.

Ramirez knows she’s staring and quickly gathers herself, moving through the script she was taught for scenarios such as this, “Hello everyone, I know this is a difficult time, but I’m going to need Emily to come down to the station with me to fill out a Missing Persons Report for her fiancé and answer some questions so we can find Jonathan as quickly as possible. You’re all welcome to come with her if you would like, but unfortunately my squad car cannot fit all of you, so you’ll have to drive separately.”

Ramirez isn’t expecting the looks of confusion being thrown her way, so she begins her usual reassurances that this is all standard procedure and none of them are under arrest when the handsome man on the couch interjects and stops her in her tracks.

“Jonathan isn’t Emily’s fiancé, he’s mine.” 

‘_ Oh,’ _ she thinks, ‘ _ Yes, that makes more sense.’ _

The rough grate of his voice from crying matched with the pure agony on his stunning features puts him as a dead giveaway for a distraught fiancé. She should have seen it before. It’s clear that everyone in the room loves the person-of-interest, this ‘Jonathan’, but none of them look as tortured by the disappearance, like they’re barely holding it together, as the man before her. 

Ramirez moves carefully towards the man, as if he were a wounded animal, and sticks her hand out in greeting, “I’m Detective Marisa Ramirez with the LAPD. I’d like to take you back to the station so we can get a better sense of what has happened to your - Jonathan, was it? - and where he might be. Will you come with me?”

The man takes her hand and stands, still holding on so he can shake it with the assurance of someone who was taught to shake a hand with purpose at a young age, “Ronan Farrow, Detective Ramirez. We can go with you to the station.”

* * *

It’s closing in on 10 o’clock by the time Detective Ramirez arrives at the station with Mr. Farrow - ‘_ Please, call me Ronan, Detective. I don’t think I can handle being Mr. Farrow at the moment’ _ \- and the others in tow. 

The precinct is still rather quiet, but there are tells that the night will start to pick up soon, and Ramirez wants to sequester the group away from prying eyes before traffic increases. 

“There’s paperwork that you will need to fill out in order to file a Missing Persons Report. I’m going to see if one of the conference rooms is free,” she gently offers Ronan a seat at her desk while she checks to see which room is free. She watches the others hover over the distressed man as each of them try to convince him, unsuccessfully, to take a seat. 

“Hey, Jackson!” Ramirez calls out to another detective in the middle of his long-term fight against the coffee machine, “Do you know if Conference Room B is free for the night? I have a fiancé who needs to fill out a Missing Persons Report and he has friends with him for support. They’re worried about foul play and they want to help in any way they can.”

“Yeah, B is free. I don’t think anyone needs it until the morning.”

“Thanks, Jackson.”

“No problem, Ramirez. And, hey, good luck - missing person cases are hard. Why do they think there’s foul play?”

“I don’t know, but they all seem very sure the POI didn’t pull a runner so I guess we’re going to find out in questioning. Whatever it is, I hope for the fiancé’s sake we find them, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen someone look so broken.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Ramirez makes her way back over to the group and herds them into Conference Room B with the Missing Persons paperwork in hand. She directs them all to take a seat, and opens the blank file in front of her, “Is it okay if I record this conversation for my notes? None of you are under arrest, so this is just for our records.”

The group hesitates, deferring to Ronan, who replies, “You may. I am a lawyer by trade, so I might direct my friends to not answer a question I deem too invasive, but for now the recorder is fine.”

Ramirez notes the admission in the profile she’s creating of Ronan and his fiancé, in both her head and the official file, “Thank you, Ronan. To start, please state your full legal name, date of birth, address, and relation to the missing person.”

“Satchel Ronan O’Sullivan Farrow. Date of birth is December 19th, 1987. I live in both Manhattan, New York and West Hollywood, Los Angeles. Jon- Jonathan Lovett is my fiancé,” he rattles the information off by rote, very little inflection entering his voice until he has to say his fiancé’s name. 

Can you give me a description of Jonathan?”

“He is 37 years-old and 5 foot 7 inches. He has pale skin, curly brown hair, and brown eyes. I have a picture of him if that would help?”

“Yes, thank you. Ronan, when was the last time you saw Jonathan?”

“This morning. He was running late for work and meant to leave the house at 9 o’clock but it was closer to 9:30 by the time he actually left.”

“And where does he work?”

At this, the other blond man speaks up, “Lovett works with us,” he gestures to the man with dark, greying hair and himself. “We run a media company that focuses on podcasting and activism called ‘Crooked Media’. The office is about twenty minutes to half an hour from Lovett and Ronan’s house depending on traffic and if Lovett stops for coffee.”

Ramirez turns to address the blond man directly, “Can you both state your names for the record?”

“Thomas Vietor.”

“Jonathan Favreau. Yes, we know it’s weird that two of us are named ‘Jonathan’, but we make it work.”

She can’t help but smile at what is clearly a long-running joke, “Alright, when was it you realized that Jonathan was missing?”

“I started worrying when he didn’t answer my texts all day. He usually checks in around lunch, and since I had the dog at home with me today, I expected him to at least ask for pictures of her. He also told me as he left this morning that he would probably get out of work early but that he would call first to see what I wanted to do for dinner. When even his regular arrival time passed with no word, no response to my texts and calls I called Jonathan’s friend Spencer,” he gestures to the lankier of the dark-haired men, “to see if Jonathan had called him at all. When Spencer hadn’t heard from him, I called Favreau.”

“And what did you tell Ronan, Mr. Favreau?”

“I told him that Lovett hadn’t been in the office all day. He texted me after the taping of his show went long last night to say he might take the day off or work from home, so we assumed he was at home all day. There wasn’t much for him to do today besides micromanage edits and terrorize the interns and we didn’t have any big staff meetings today, so we didn’t think much of it until Ronan called me.”

“So, sometime in the thirty or so minutes between Jonathan leaving the house this morning and when he should have arrived at work, he disappeared?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“I’ll have someone run his plates to see if his car was spotted anywhere. Before I step out, I have to ask, why are you convinced there’s foul play? I don’t mean to be crass, but is it at all possible that he ran and doesn’t want to be found?”

Jon Favreau speaks up before anyone else can, voice full of conviction, “Lovett would never do that. Even when he moved across the country to get away from D.C. he was still in a happy relationship with Ronan and would call Tommy and myself at least once a week. He loves his life here with us and Crooked and Ronan and their dog too much to ever jeopardize that.”

“Ronan, would you agree with that assessment?”

“I would.”

“Would you elaborate on why you personally believe Jonathan was abducted?”

Ronan pauses, breathing in deeply before looking up at Ramirez, “Jonathan was taken because of me. He was taken because of my work.”

Detective Ramirez isn’t expecting Ronan to be so candid in his statement but the more she can find out the higher their chances are of finding his fiancé. She knows she has to be delicate here as she carries on, “What is your work?”

“I am an investigative journalist. I mostly write pieces on the abuse of power and the structures that protect the powerful for _ The New Yorker _.”

There it is. Detective Ramirez knows where from she recognizes Ronan. She never had a reason to cross paths with Ronan Farrow, or any of the other members of his family of Hollywood Royalty, but the District Attorney’s office has been in an uproar ever since his first article on Harvey Weinstein was published three years earlier. Every woman on the force has followed the Weinstein saga, horrified but ultimately unsurprised at the lengths the wealthy and influential will go to subvert the justice system and remain in power. The man before her had changed the world as they knew it. And now she held the fate of his world in her hands. 

She gathers herself and presses forward, “That can be dangerous work, but why do you think it would make your fiancé a target?”

“He has already been targeted. Back in 2018, A.M.I. and _ the National Inquirer _ hired a private intelligence firm to surveil Jonathan and try to use something on him to blackmail me into not publishing pieces I wrote about their tactics. They didn’t find anything at the time, but they did note that Jonathan’s routine was ‘too predictable’,” Ronan lets out a mirthless laugh that quickly morphs into a choked sob. The man, Spencer, places a comforting hand on his shoulder in silent encouragement and Ronan continues, “We joked about him being ‘too boring’ for blackmail but we never considered that his predictability would be used against him like this.”

He pauses and stares down at the table, seeming to contemplate the merits of sharing more.

“Ronan, I understand that your work is sensitive and I don’t want to frighten you further, but we have a very limited window to get a trace on Jonathan before finding him becomes exponentially harder. If there’s anything else that could help us locate him then you need to tell me.”

Ronan appears to brace himself before speaking, “The information gathered for _ the Inquirer _ was conducted by a subcontractor through the intelligence firm Black Cube, but I don’t believe A.M.I. is behind Jonathan’s disappearance. The piece I’m working on right now is on national security and the various entities working behind the scenes to influence the systems that keep us safe, domestically and internationally. There are more than a few entities in the piece that would be…less than pleased to have their secrets published. I was already aware of a few renewed surveillance efforts on me. It honestly never occurred to me until today that they would target Jonathan like this instead.” 

“Alright, I’m going to run his plates and license to see if there’s a match anywhere in the system. Do you have that picture of him you mentioned?”

She watches Ronan hesitate before grabbing his wallet and handing over a well-worn picture. It’s not the first time tonight that Ramirez feels an ache in her heart for the man in front of her, but it suddenly feels more real, staring down at the picture in her hand. The man in the picture is as Ronan previously described him: mid 30s with dark eyes and curly dark hair contained under a baseball hat. His face is rounded with rounder cheeks and light crinkles at his eyes and his strong jaw and chin offset his sweet dimples. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a general softness - a kindness - to the man, as he poses with one of the dogs Ramirez had seen at the house earlier - the smallest of the dogs, who forced their head under Ronan’s hand on the couch as if to comfort him, if she recalls correctly. It’s as if the love between the photographer and the photographed warmed the world around them, even if just for that moment.

It takes Detective Ramirez a moment to find her voice, “I’m going to bring these to processing. In the meantime, there are a few more forms I need you to fill out for the report. I’ll be back shortly,” she gathers the papers around her and makes sure Ronan has the remaining forms before leaving the conference room.

Ramirez takes her file over to processing and has the overnight person run Jonathan Lovett’s plates and ID to see if there’s a match in the system. It’s not long before processing confirms that Mr. Lovett’s car was discovered at a Starbucks that Ramirez knows is close to the house. 

She heads back to her desk and puts out a call for a field officer to go to the Starbucks where Mr. Lovett’s car was found and investigate any security tapes they may have of the entrance to the building and the parking lot between 9:30 and 10 o’clock that morning. She knows it’s late, and that whoever is still at the Starbucks will not have seen Mr. Lovett that morning, but if there’s anything on the tapes then she has to know about it tonight.

It’s not even twenty minutes later when the field officer is calling her back to tell her that they found Jonathan Lovett’s car in the Starbucks parking lot with his keys and phone still inside and they have a copy of the tapes that they’re emailing to her. She opens the file and plays the footage that starts at 9:42am when the parking lot cameras show one Jonathan Lovett exiting the Starbucks to sit in his car for a few minutes. At 9:44am, two men leave the Starbucks and approach Mr. Lovett in his car. There isn't any audio, but whatever the two men say convinces Mr. Lovett to exit his car, hands behind his head, and get in their nondescript black SUV. The video ends at 9:45am when the SUV exits the parking lot and takes Jonathan Lovett with it. 

* * *

Ramirez wishes she had a moment to gather herself but time is of the essence. She knows her Sergeant is preparing to leave for the night but she has to talk to him before he goes. 

“Sarg! I need your advice on something.”

Sergeant Sean Pearson looks up from the last of his paperwork and gestures for Ramirez to sit in the chair next to his desk, “What’s on your mind, Ramirez?”

“I went to a house earlier tonight to check on a call about a person who went missing this morning. I have the person-of-interest’s fiancé in B at the moment but it’s a bit…delicate.”

“How so? Do you think the POI did a runner and the fiancé is just in denial? Do you think the fiancé is behind the person’s disappearance?”

“No, none of that. It’s just that, well, I think we have to call in a higher power here.”

“A higher power? What, like the SVU?”

“I was thinking more FBI.”

Pearson stares at her like she just clobbered him over the head. If the situation weren’t so serious she would pull her phone out to take a picture for the detective group chat. Calling in the FBI means handing full jurisdiction over to the feds. Yes, they’re effective, but the LAPD loses any authority they have over a case if the FBI takes it.

Pearson shakes himself and continues, “Marisa, it’s almost 11 on a Friday night and you want me to call the FBI over someone who went missing not twenty-four hours ago? Why can’t we just follow standard procedure and run their information in the system until morning?”

“I have security footage from a Starbucks where the POI’s car was found and it shows clear signs of abduction.”

“I still don’t see why this should involve the FBI. We don’t call them in until it goes across state borders.

“I believe that the POI may have been taken out of the country and that his disappearance could be international news.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the missing person is Ronan Farrow’s fiancé and Mr. Farrow has reason to believe his fiancé was taken as blackmail to stop the reporting of his latest story.”

The color drains from Pearson's face and his eyes widen as the gravity of Ramirez’s words hit him. 

“We have a call to make.”

* * *


	3. SATURDAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Delaney, Bailey, and Marcia for their copious notes and edits.  
It's been a very rough week for me personally so please let me know what you think in the comments.  
As always, this is a work of fiction so please do not share it with the subjects.  
Enjoy!

Ronan is no stranger to all-nighters, but now that his book is done and his current piece is in fact-checking, he hasn’t been up to see this side of sunrise in what feels like the longest time. He stares out the window of Spencer’s car and feels himself getting lost in the surreality of it all. Spencer shifts in his seat and Ronan knows he’s working up the courage to break the silence. 

“We have to tell Jon’s parents. His sister. They need to know.”

Ronan knew this was coming, but the thought still sends his stomach plummeting. How can he possibly tell Fran and Robert that their son has been taken? That Jon is in danger and could be hurt and it’s because of Ronan and his work? How do you tell your future in-laws, the people who have welcomed you into their family, that? 

Spencer continues speaking, jolting Ronan out of his thoughts, “I can be with you when you tell them if you want me to be there. I know this is hard and I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this.”

Ronan’s chest feels tight as he looks at Spencer, “Thanks, Spencer, but I’ve got this. I really appreciate you staying with me all night. I know how much Jon means to you.”

He watches as Spencer visibly swallows and nods in thanks. 

* * *

Spencer offers to stay with Ronan while he calls Jon’s parents, but Ronan waves him off and tells him to go home and at least change if he doesn’t feel like sleeping. Spencer won’t promise to get any sleep but he does agree to a shower and says he’ll be back over afterwards. 

Ronan knows there’s no easy way to make the necessary calls but he hesitates in jumping straight into the deep end and dials someone other than the Lovetts first. 

“Ronan, honey! How are you? Your sister is here and the baby is asking when her Uncle Ronan and Uncle Jon will be back! She misses you and Dylan misses you even if she doesn’t say it as much - ”

“Mom, are you busy? Do you have somewhere you can sit?”

“I’m just puttering around the house, why? What’s wrong?”

Ronan can feel his chest tightening and his breath quickening. 

“Ronan? Ronan, honey, I need you to breathe with me. That’s it. Tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

“Mom, Jon is missing.”

It’s silent on the line, and Ronan feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

“Mom?”

“I’m here, Ronan. What do you mean ‘Jon is missing’?”

“Jon is missing and we know he was taken. He’s been missing since yesterday morning. I thought he was at work and Favs and Tommy thought he was at home and the LAPD recovered security footage from a Starbucks that showed him being forced into a car at 9:45am yesterday, he’s missing, Mom, and I’m so scared and so worried and how am I going to tell his parents? I still have to call them but I don’t know how to tell them that their son was taken. What do I do, Mom?” The words spill out of Ronan at a frenetic pace and he can feel his hands shaking so hard that he puts the phone down on the kitchen counter on speaker so he doesn’t drop it again. 

“Oh Ronan, I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart. We’re going to get Jon back to you. I know you’re so scared, and you’re allowed to be, but panicking doesn’t bring him back. We need to stay strong for Jon. He’s going to make it back to you. You have to believe that. You can’t give up on him.”

Ronan knows his mom is right and takes a few deep breaths until he feels his pulse even out again, “Mom, how do I tell his parents?”

Mia lets out a noise that’s both comforting and pained, “There’s no good way to break terrible news to parents. They’re going to be as scared and in pain as you are and you have to allow them the space to feel that. Just be gentle but quick about it: like ripping off a bandage. You’re going to need each other to lean on until Jon is found. I have total faith in your ability to get through this. You have such empathy, Ronan. Just let yourself feel the love and pain you have and know that you’re not alone. You’re never alone, Ronan.”

Ronan can feel tears fill his eyes, but he feels more at peace than he did before calling his mom, “Thanks, Mom. I love you. I’m going to call them, but I’ll keep you in the loop, okay?”

“Good luck, sweetheart. I love you and Jon very much and I’ll pray for both of you and for his safe return. Is it okay if I tell your siblings about everything? Just so they’re in the loop and can keep Jon in their prayers as well.”

“Yeah, would you? I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”

Ronan closes his eyes for a minute, keeping his breathing even and deep before dialing Fran Lovett. 

She picks up on the fourth ring, “Ronan! So good to hear from you! I tried calling Jon yesterday and he didn’t answer and I was just telling Robert that we should try calling you instead to see if we could trick you into letting us talk to our son - ”

Ronan can’t help cutting her off and blurting out, “Fran, I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you and Robert free right now? Are you sitting down?”

Bemusement colors Fran’s voice as she responds, “We’re at home right now, honey, why?”

“Can you put me on speakerphone? I have to tell both of you something and it’s going to be hard and I’d rather tell both of you together.”

“Yes, of course. We’re both here. What’s wrong?”

Ronan closes his eyes and lets the trust in her voice wash over him, taking a beat before he tells them what will surely break their hearts, “Fran, Robert, yesterday at 9:45am, Jon was taken by people we believe to be connected to national security entities angry about a piece I was hoping to publish soon. We didn’t know he was missing until nighttime because I assumed he was at work and Favreau and Tommy thought he was just working from home. We contacted the LAPD and filed a Missing Persons Report. The LAPD found security footage at a Starbucks near the house of Jon being forced into a car by two men. 

“They have elected to involve the FBI because the entities I was investigating are all foreign and they’re worried that Jon was taken out of the country. I just got home from the FBI’s LA office. I know this is bad, to put it mildly. I don’t want to presume anything, and I know I’m asking a lot, but if you want to come out here I would really appreciate the company. I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m so scared and I just want him back and I’m so sorry this is happening because of me and I’m doing everything I can to find him and bring him home. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I’m so sorry.”

The same all-consuming panic that has been his constant companion ever since he realized something was wrong is back and he can’t stop the tears and sobs and apologies from spilling out of him. Fran and Robert love their son more than anything and they love how happy Jon is with Ronan but will they want Ronan around now that they know their son is in danger because of him? Will they even want Jon to marry Ronan? If Jon doesn’t come home will they resent him forever? Jon has to come home. He has to. Ronan wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Jon doesn’t make it back to him.

Ronan hears Fran’s soothing and comforting voice over the sound of his own choking sobs.

“Shhhh, Ronan you’re okay, it’s going to be okay but we need you to breathe, breathe with me sweetheart, just breathe.”

He comes back to himself with a shudder, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater, “I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be comforting you right now and I keep losing it. You’re not the first person to tell me to breathe but I can’t seem to catch my breath.”

Fran makes a concerned noise, “Oh dear, of course you’re upset, you love him as much as we do. This isn’t your fault. We’re going to get our baby back, aren’t we, Robert?”

The sound of Robert Lovett clearing his throat thickly crackles over the speaker, “Yes, we are.”

“Ronan, honey, thank you for telling us. We know it’s probably been a long night for you so we’re going to let you get some sleep, but we’re going to call Steph and try to get the first flight to LA, okay?”

“Can you keep me posted on your flight info? One of us can pick you up when you get in.”

“Thank you, honey. We’ll keep you updated and be there as soon as we can. And Ronan? You’re not alone. We’re all here for you and we love you and we’re going to get Jonathan back. And you’re going to publish that story of yours. No one uses my baby as blackmail and gets away with it.”

Ronan lets out a half sob and thanks her before hanging up.

* * *

Ronan takes his own advice, ‘ _ for once in your goddamn life, you hypocrite _ ,’ the little voice in his head that always sounds dangerously like Jonathan says, and he takes a shower. He knows he shouldn’t be using so much water, but losing himself under the spray is the calmest he’s felt since yesterday morning, before Jon left. After his shower, he curls up with Pundit on the bed and tries to rest, but everything smells so much like Jon - this is Jonathan’s bed more than it’s theirs after all - that he can’t get his mind to slow down for long enough to fall asleep. He lays there, staring at Pundit’s soft curls, feeling his own heart beating in his chest for what feels like an eternity. He must sleep because the next thing he knows, he jolts awake to the sound of the front door opening. The sun is higher in the sky and the clock on the nightstand says it’s afternoon. He’s been asleep for hours. 

In Ronan’s sleepy confusion, he scrambles from bed and to the front hall with Pundit hot on his heels, “Jon? Jonathan, is that you? Baby, you scared me, I - Oh.”

The heartbreak and pity that paint Tommy’s face makes Ronan’s burn. Of course it’s not Jonathan. He’s missing. He’s missing and the FBI is involved and he’s not going to just walk through the front door. Ronan feels like an idiot. A heartsick idiot. 

“Hey man, we hadn’t heard from you since Spencer brought you back and I thought I would come check on you. He said you were going to call the Lovetts? How did that go?”

Ronan is thankful for Tommy’s tact in not mentioning his momentary slip. He pushes his devastation aside and remembers his earlier conversations, “Yeah, I called my mom and Jon’s parents. They said they would call Steph and try to get the first available flight out here and keep me posted on their plans. I fell asleep after my shower so I haven’t checked my phone in a few hours.”

He grabs his phone from his pocket and sees that he has four missed texts from Fran, one from his mom, and a missed call from Stephanie. Fran’s say that their flight will get them to LAX around 10pm that night, his mom asks if he would like her to fly out for support, and he’ll have to call Steph back later. 

“Have you spoken to any of them?”

Tommy shakes his head, “No, but we sent out a message to the Crooked staff. We let them know what’s going on and we gave them the email address the FBI set up for tips, so if they remember anything suspicious that they think might help, they can pass it along."

Ronan nods, considering their next move, “Do you think we should put out a public statement?”

Tommy doesn’t hesitate, “I do. I think the more people who are looking for him, the better. Plus, if anyone has any information then it could be useful to get the tip email out there.”

“You’re right. It just makes it feel more real.”

“I know.”

They both stand there, in the front hall of the home Ronan and Jon built, taking stock for a moment.

Ronan breaks the silence first, “I think I’ll release a statement via Twitter and Instagram. Do you and Favreau want to release your own statement via Crooked?”

“No, we can piggyback off of yours, if that’s okay with you?”

“That’s fine. Don’t want too many messages out there. Keep it all contained.”

Tommy seems to hesitate before moving towards Ronan and wrapping him in a tight hug. Ronan sinks into the hug, burying his head in Tommy’s broad shoulders, shaking as he feels more tears enter his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, Ronan. This is such bullshit. We’re all here for you, though. Whatever you need, we got you. You need us to get food? We’ll get it. You need us to walk Pundit? We can pick her up. You want us to run interference with the Lovetts? That’s trickier, but we’ll make it work. You’re not alone.”

Of all of Jonathan’s straight friends, Ronan has always been closest with Tommy. Ronan has always seen Tommy not just as Jonathan's friend, but as his too; maybe it's borne from their mutual love of foreign policy, or from knowing him even longer than he's known Jonathan, but something about Tommy’s personality has always appealed to Ronan. Despite the rocky start to their friendship and constant barbs, no amount of picking on each other could blind Ronan to the love between Tommy and Jonathan, and Ronan knows that Jonathan’s abduction must be hurting Tommy as much as it’s hurting Ronan. You don’t have to ask someone to marry you to love them with your whole being.

“Thank you, Tommy. I know this is hard for you and that you miss him too. I really appreciate you guys for being here.”

“Always. Plus, Lovett would never forgive us if we abandoned you in his absence. He’s spoken of your eating habits and curbing those impulses alone would keep us from leaving. I can hear him now, ‘Thomas Vietor! How could you! You know he won’t eat or sleep if someone doesn’t remind him! It’s been nine years, you think you would remember every single thing I’ve ever said about Ronan! I mean really! What will the other New Englanders think if you let one of your own waste away?’”

Ronan can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him and he pulls out of the hug. His own laugh is jarring to hear in such a dire situation, but he appreciates Tommy for making him smile. 

“Can you help me write the statement? I don’t want to get anything wrong and a second set of eyes would help. And I need to pick up the Lovetts from the airport before we put anything out. The less media invasion into their privacy the better.”

Tommy smiles and gestures for Ronan to lead the way into the house.

* * *

_ Ronan Farrow @RonanFarrow _

_ He would hate that I’m doing this via the notes app but I relish facing his anger because that means he’s home and safe.  _

_ [Two pictures follow the text: one is the picture of Jon Lovett holding Pundit that Ronan gave to Detective Ramirez of the LAPD, the other is a screenshot of a statement via notes app, which reads as follows] _

_ Security footage at a West Hollywood Starbucks shows Jonathan Lovett being forced at gunpoint into a nondescript black SUV at 9:45AM PST on Friday. The LAPD and FBI have been informed of his disappearance and the LAPD recovered the footage which confirmed the disappearance as an abduction. Without giving away too much of the information, we believe Jonathan is being held hostage in order to deter the publishing of an investigative  _ New Yorker _ piece on national security. We have not yet had any contact with the abductors. Family and loved ones of Jonathan have been notified and we are all fully cooperating with the FBI to bring Jonathan home safely. If you know anything as to where he can be found, please contact the email hotline linked in my bio. The love of my life, my fiancé, has been taken and words cannot express the pain and fear in my heart. If you have any information, please share in order to help find my Jonathan. Please.  _

_ Crooked Media @crookedmedia _

_ [Retweet from @RonanFarrow]  _

_ If you have any information concerning @jonlovett’s whereabouts please contact the FBI via the email in our bio. #bringlovetthome _

_ Jon Favreau @jonfavs _

_ [Retweet from @RonanFarrow] _

_ Our best friend has been taken and we want him back. #bringlovetthome _

_ Tommy Vietor @TVietor08 _

_ [Retweet from @RonanFarrow]  _

_ To the despicable people who took @jonlovett: just know that we will not stop. We will find our Lovett, we will break this story, and we will ruin you.  _ _ #bringlovetthome _

* * *

Ronan hits publish on his statements for Twitter and Instagram. He hits publish while sitting on the couch Jonathan picked out, holding Fran’s hand, Robert’s heavy on his shoulder. Silence coats the room for what feels like a lifetime until the pinging starts. They begin slowly but crescendo as more messages, comments, and replies flood Ronan’s inbox and mentions. He refreshes the pages and, for what feels like the  _ nth _ time that day, his eyes fill with tears at the outpouring of love and support from complete strangers. Within minutes #bringlovetthome is trending across Twitter and Instagram. The little voice in Ronan’s head quips, ‘ _ He would be so angry to know that he’s trending and can’t even bask in the attention _ .’ Ronan’s phone won’t stop vibrating with texts from concerned friends and colleagues all asking to help in some way, any way they can.

Fran’s hand is shaking in his, but her voice is steady, “We’re going to bring my baby home.”

* * *


	4. SUNDAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Delaney for the edits and notes, you're the best!  
As always, this is a work of fiction and therefore does not need to be shared with the subjects.  
Enjoy and let me know what you think in the comments!

Ronan’s phone rings and he jolts out of his daze. 

It hasn’t made any noise since he set it to ‘do not disturb’ fifteen minutes after he released his statements on social media. His phone had been so inundated with calls and texts and emails and DM’s from friends, fellow journalists, and other concerned parties, that he could barely swipe the notifications away to silence it. Only someone on his unscreened callers list would be able to get through to him now. 

He looks down at the screen and sees the caller ID flash at him, bright and bold: David Remnick. 

Ronan accepts the call, “Hi, David.”

“Ronan, how are you?” Remnick sounds concerned and gentle in that way only a parent can and it makes Ronan’s heart ache.

“Not well, if I’m being honest,” Remnick has seen Ronan at his worst; there’s no reason to save face with him now.

Remnick hums sympathetically before continuing, “That’s understandable, considering the circumstances. Listen, Ronan, you said in your statement that the FBI believes Jon was taken because of your current investigation, is there anything else we should know? Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Honestly, you probably know more than the average person, purely because you know about the particulars of my investigation. The FBI is going through the tip line they set up for the case, but until we receive a list of demands from the abductors, there’s not much that can be done.”

“Were they able to find anything on the SUV?”

“They traced the plates and found the car abandoned near LAX. The car was a rental and the identities it was signed under proved to be false. They’re currently working with LAX to access all of their security footage, but it could take a day or so to go through all of the footage. Until then, we just have to wait.”

Remnick is silent for a moment before he speaks, keeping his voice even and soft, “Ronan, I know I’m not your father, and you can tell me off if I’m overstepping my bounds, but Ester and I care about you. We care about Jon. Beyond the professional, if there’s anything we can do for you, please let us know, okay? And keep us posted on updates. I’m so sorry that this is happening to the both of you. You’re both strong, and you’ll get through this, but that doesn’t mean that strength should be tested so cruelly.”

Ronan’s throat feels tight and he nods even though he knows Remnick can’t see him.

“I’ll have Fabio call you, but please keep us updated. Whatever you want to do about the story is your choice. Fact-checking is going to continue unless you tell me otherwise, but it won’t run until I have your go-ahead. I know there’s more than the truth at stake here and it will ultimately be your choice how we proceed. I’ll let you go now, but keep me posted, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, David. For everything.”

“Of course, Ronan.”

Ronan hangs up and turns to face Fran, who’s joined him on the couch, Pundit spread out between them. The smudges under Fran’s eyes and the slouch of her shoulders speak to an exhaustion that Ronan feels in his bones. Ronan knows she got as much sleep as he did last night, if their meet-up in the kitchen at 2AM was any indication. She looks at him expectantly, like she does every time Ronan answers his phone. It makes his heart ache. 

“That was Remnick. He was calling to check on me and offer whatever resources he can.  _ The New Yorker _ general counsel will call me later with more options.”

“That was kind of him. Did he have any advice on what should happen to your piece?” 

“He said it’s up to me, ultimately. He won’t pull it without my approval. It’s still in fact-checking at the moment, so we’ll just keep that up until we know more.”

Fran takes his hand in hers and brings it down to pet Pundit’s soft head. She wakes up at the prodding and moves to situate herself precariously on Ronan’s lap, nudging his unoccupied hand to continue petting her. 

Fran laughs at her persistence, “That dog sure is something else.”

“She’s an angel,” Ronan agrees, submitting to Pundit’s wishes without a fight.

Fran shifts over until she’s seated next to Ronan and leans her head on his shoulder, their hands still clasped. If there’s one person Ronan knows who feels exactly as he does, it’s Fran Lovett. Jonathan and his mother have always been close. Jonathan complains about how much his mom calls him, but Ronan knows that Fran is the one constant in Jon’s life, the one person he’s always been able to count on to be there and to listen. Their bond is something special, something Ronan understands from his own relationship with his mother, and Ronan knows that Jon will always be Fran’s baby, no matter how old he gets or what he accomplishes. Ronan knows that if he and Jon raise their kids with half as good parent-child relationships as each of them have with their mothers, then they’ll be alright. ‘ _ If _ ,’ a voice in his head whispers, ‘ _ if Jonathan returns to raise kids with. He has to come back alive first.’ _

“You know, when Jonathan first called me to say he met someone, an Afghanistan and Pakistan expert from the State Department he was introduced to by Mandy Moore, of all people, and he wanted Robert and I to meet him, I wasn’t expecting you.”

Ronan keeps still at his future mother-in-law’s admission, “What were you expecting?”

“He never brought anyone home before you so I had done quite a lot of building you up in my head. I was expecting someone who would sweep my son off his feet and agree to give me grandchildren within the next few years. Someone whose family I had never heard of but would get to know over time. I knew you were smart if you were working in the State Department. I knew you had to be funny and charming to catch Jonathan’s attention, but I also knew you had to challenge him, to call him out when you disagreed. He would get bored with someone who never challenged him. I knew you had to be impressive for Jon to want to bring you home, but I was worried that, whoever you were, you wouldn’t be good enough for my baby.”

Ronan tries to focus on how soft Pundit’s fur is beneath his fingers. He’s known Fran and Robert for most of the eight years he and Jon have been together. While it’s no secret that Jon and his father rarely see eye to eye on everything from healthcare to - for a time - Ronan just being a pretty face, Ronan at least thought Fran liked him. He thought they had a good relationship. He at least thought Fran liked how happy Jon was with Ronan. If Fran is saying what Ronan thinks she is then - ”

“I was worried that you wouldn’t be good enough for Jon, but he was so nervous, I hadn’t seen him that nervous since he came out, and he told me that he really wanted me to give you a chance. He told me that he knew you two hadn’t known each other very long, but he had never felt like this about anyone. My baby was in love, so I decided to give you a chance.”

Ronan tries to keep his voice light, “Oh? Do you regret giving me a chance?” 

“No.”

Ronan freezes at the conviction in Fran’s voice and the vice on his heart loosens slightly.

“Jon brought you home and you both looked so nervous, and that showed me all I needed to see. I know my son, and he was nervous because he knew he would choose you - would always choose you - over everything, but he didn’t want it to come to that. And you, my dear, you were nervous because you were in love and you wanted the people Jonathan loved to see how much you loved him and to accept you as part of his life. The way you looked at each other, the way he laughed and lit up around you, the way you looked at him like you would run away from it all if he asked, the way he argued with you and you argued back, it was like a balm to my soul. Jonathan had found the real deal. He found someone who wanted to be with him even if they were separated by a continent and an ocean. He found someone he wanted to call first thing in the morning and be the last person he talked to at night. He found someone who would respect his privacy and protect him, from how cruel you know the press can be, for as long as possible. I knew you were it the minute I met you. Even if it took you almost a decade to decide that marriage was for you, I knew you were forever a part of our family, either way. I wouldn’t have fought Jonathan so hard for grandchildren if I didn’t know you were it. Even with all of your struggles over the last few years, I knew.”

“How did you know before I knew?”

Fran squeezes his hand where their fingers were still locked together, “I see the way you’ve always looked at him - the way you  _ still _ look at him - like he’s the only person in the room. Oh Ronan, honey, how could I not love someone who loves my baby so completely?”

Ronan leans his head on hers and squeezes her hand, “Thank you, Fran. And for the record, I’m glad Jonathan always has you in his corner.”

“He has both of us.”

* * *

Emily and Hanna stop by around noon with homemade brownies and dog treats for Pundit in hand. They stay for lunch and do a fairly good job of keeping Ronan and the Lovetts busy, but eventually they both leave and the three of them are left with nothing but their thoughts again. They have yet to hear anything from Jon’s abductors, an unspoken reality that weighs on all of them heavily. If the abductors have yet to contact the FBI with their demands, then what does that mean for their chances of finding Jon and bringing him home safely? 

Eventually Robert cracks, “Ronan, can you call the FBI agents on the case? Maybe they’ve heard something and just can’t get ahold of us.”

Fran nods in agreement and Ronan dials the number given to him for their assigned agents.

“Special Agent David Chen speaking.”

“Agent Chen, it’s Ronan Farrow. My in-laws are here with me and we haven’t heard anything from the bureau since we left yesterday morning. We were wondering if there were any updates we should know about? Your partner said one of you would be keeping us posted.”

“Yes, we haven’t learned much but if you and your in-laws wanted to come back down to the bureau, there are a few things we would like to discuss with you. Tell the front desk that you’re here to see myself and Agent Mahoney when you arrive, Mr. Farrow. We’ll speak soon.”

Ronan’s heart sinks at the lack of substantial news, but thanks Agent Chen, and promises that they will be down as soon as possible.

Ronan hangs up and turns to face Fran and Robert, “They don’t have anything big to share, but they would like us to go down to the bureau. There are a few things they want to go over in person, I suppose.”

The Lovetts seem to brace themselves before Fran speaks, “Well then, we better head down and hear whatever it is they have to say.”

* * *

They call Stephanie on their way to the bureau. Jon’s sister finally got Ronan on the phone by calling Fran after Ronan’s statement was released. Fran and Robert had talked to her before their flight out to LA, but Steph wanted to talk to Ronan himself. He had braced himself for whatever Steph threw at him, but she had only wanted to make sure Ronan was okay. She wanted him to know that they were all there for him no matter what and that they were going to get through this together. She offered to fly out but Ronan insisted that she stay for the time being. He doesn’t want her coming to LA to find out her brother is dead or for him to become one of the countless cold cases on file. He promised to let her know if there was anything that warranted her flying out and to call her with updates either way. 

_ “Keep us posted, okay? That’s my brother they took, and he’s a pain in my ass - especially when he gives my kid sugar before bedtime, which he claims is his right as the Gay Uncle - but he’s been my best friend for our whole lives and the thought of him never coming home is...” _

_ “I know.” _

_ “I know you know. That’s why I’m saying all of this to you and not my mother.” _

_ “Love you, Steph. We’ll call you later. Say hi to everyone for me.” _

_ “You too, Ronan.” _

Even though they didn’t have anything big to share, Ronan knew he had to call her, just to keep her in the loop.

“Steph? Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all! My next patient is running late so I have a few minutes. Anything new?”

“Nothing we know for sure. I called our agents back to see if they knew anything else and they said there wasn’t anything big to report but to come down to the bureau anyway.”

“Hmm. Well, that could mean any number of things. Call me if they tell you anything new?”

“Of course. Hey, your mom wants to talk to you, I’m handing the phone over.”

“Ah! That’s okay! I really should - ”

“Stephanie! Dear, how are you? How’s my grandson?”

* * *

It’s going on 4 o’clock when they finally make it to the shared offices of Agents Mahoney and Chen. The two men are just as different as when Ronan and the others first met them, but they seem to have a rapport that works. Agent David Chen is young, maybe Jonathan’s age, with shortly-cropped, fine dark hair and olive skin. He tells Ronan when they meet that they don’t discuss politics in the bureau, but he knows of Jonathan’s work and finds him and his podcasts very funny. He even convinced his siblings to use VoteSaveAmerica to register to vote in 2018. His youth gives him a voracity for the truth that Ronan knows well. 

If Agent David Chen is young and eager, Agent Bill Mahoney is his opposite. Agent Mahoney is what a writer would call ‘grizzled’. He’s in his mid 60s with surprisingly thick, wavy grey hair and sharp blue eyes. Every time Ronan looks at him, all he can hear is Jonathan joking about how there’s nothing to worry about because Robert De Niro is on the case. His voice is gruff but he speaks with a softness that tells of decades of empathy for case victims and their loved ones. Detective Ramirez of the LAPD assured Ronan that Agent Mahoney and his protege were the best in the business. 

He hopes she’s right. 

“Agent Mahoney, Agent Chen, thank you for meeting with us. These are my in-laws, Fran and Robert Lovett, they flew in last night.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lovett, thank you for being here. I know this is a difficult time for your family.”

“Thank you, Agent. Is there any new information about my son?”

“Sort of, ma’am. We don’t know his location, but we have been able to confirm that he has not been taken out of the country. We scoured the security tapes at LAX and their private and cargo hangars and didn’t find anything remotely suspicious. We also checked the systems of the smaller airports locally and came up empty. We believe that the abandonment of the SUV near LAX was a ploy to shake us off their trial. We’re currently monitoring all toll roads and interstates in California and the surrounding states.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t there anything else that can be done?”

“In full honesty, Mr. Lovett, there’s not much we can do until either a tip comes through the hotline we set up or we hear from the abductors. I don’t want to cause any alarm, but the window for when abductors usually reach out to either the family or law enforcement is quickly dwindling. We’re keeping a sharp eye out for any sign that they’re reaching out so as to maximize our chances of finding your son.”

Ronan knows logically that there is a limited window to find a kidnapping victim before their chances of coming home alive plummet, but to hear it said so plainly makes his knees buckle, and he sinks into one of the chairs in the Agents’ office. Ronan feels Robert’s strong hand clasp his shoulder as he leans his elbows on his knees and covers his face with his hands.

“Agent, we want our son home safe, but we aren’t idiots. If we don’t hear from the kidnappers within the week…” Robert trails off, unable to finish the sentence and put such a horrible thought out into the world.

“Mr. Lovett, we will do everything we can to bring Jonathan home. Each case is different and the trend data can only tell us so much. We aren’t giving up on your son.”

The three of them relax slightly at the assurances from the older agent. Now that their immediate fears have been partially allayed, Agent Chen sits them all down and fills the Lovetts in on more of the details they covered with Ronan the day before. Around 6 o’clock, as they’re considering taking a dinner break, a data analyst bursts into the office, seeming to have run from wherever they were stationed. 

“Agents, we have contact.”

* * *

The video is from a burner email, but Agent Chen and the data analyst assure Ronan and the Lovetts that its origin and IP are still traceable, and they should have an idea of who sent it and from where by tomorrow night. The video is fairly standard as far as ransom videos go: a voice off-screen makes a list of demands; hand over your reporting, destroy all accrued evidence, destroy all copies of evidence, turn over  _ the New Yorker _ ’s files on the investigation, sign a contract agreeing to never publish the information, etc.; and it ends with a classic threat to the abduction victim should their demands not be met. It’s almost cliche in its structure. 

Ronan hears all of this, but the only thing he can listen to, the only thing he can see, is Jonathan. 

Jonathan is centered in the video. He’s tied to a chair, hands behind his back, in a nondescript concrete room. His head is listing to the side and he slumps in his bonds. There’s a trickle of blood making its way from his hairline and down his neck that looks both dried while still freshly bleeding. He’s bleeding, and he’s breathing. He’s alive. 

Jonathan stays still for most of the video except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. It’s not until the end, when the voice off-screen threatens him with physical harm if Ronan doesn’t comply with their demands, that Jonathan perks up and looks directly at the camera with blazing eyes that turn Ronan’s insides into molten fire. 

“Ronan! Baby, don’t do it. I’ll be fine! You can’t let them win! Don’t let them win! I love you so much, Ronan don’t let them win I - ”

The video ends with the sickening crack of Jonathan’s skull as a blow from the butt of a gun wrenches his head to the side, knocking him unconscious. Ronan doesn't hear the agents explain that analytics is tracing the video and email. He doesn’t hear Fran's cries or Robert's panicked questions. All Ronan hears is the pounding of his own heart and the crack of Jonathan's skull as he stares at the blank screen and struggles not to vomit on the pristine marble floors of the FBI. 

* * *


	5. INTERLUDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay -- editing is a pain  
Thank you to Carsie and Delaney for helping edit  
Enjoy!

Jon Lovett is pissed. He’s been pissed ever since he stared down the barrel of a loaded gun in a Starbucks parking lot in West Hollywood, of all places. Sure, he’s scared out of his mind, but his entire body is vibrating with rage. It’s been three hours since he was forced into this SUV and his mood worsens with each passing minute. 

“So, to reiterate: you won’t tell me who you are, you won’t tell me where you’re taking me, you won’t tell me what will happen when we get there, and you won’t tell me when I can leave. Is there anything you _ can _ tell me?”

“Yeah -- shut up.”

“You all should have done your research on me. If you had, then you would know that I am physically incapable of shutting up. I could not shut up if my life depended on it.”

The man swipes off the safety on his handgun and brandishes it into the backseat, “Your life does depend on it.”

Jon Lovett is pissed and despite a lifetime of pugnacity, he’s not a fool. He took statistics; he knows the odds here are not in his favor. He closes his mouth with an audible clack of teeth. 

Time stretches on and Jon can’t help but think that he should have worked from home today. He should have taken Favs’ offer and just opened the shared Google Doc and worked from under the warm bed covers while Pundit dozed at his feet. He should have stayed home with Ronan. 

‘_ Fuck. Ronan,’ _ he suddenly thinks. “ _ Ronan is going to kill me.” _

They had been so careful. They both knew they had been surveilled and were currently being surveilled but they never thought anyone would stoop to actual physical harm. They thought the worst of it would be some grain-of-truth tabloid story, or even some blackmail. They didn’t think anyone would ever take either of them hostage — and they definitely didn’t think the victim would be Jon. 

‘_ Stupid,’ _ Jon thinks to himself. ‘ _ How am I going to get out of this? I need to get back to Ronan. I need to get back home.’ _

Jon knows that he’s not processing the gravity of this situation, but if he lets himself consider it he doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop. 

He takes a few deep breaths and takes stock of his surroundings. He’s in an SUV going fuck knows where. There are three men in this car with him: two in the front seat and one sitting to his left. All three men are wearing nondescript clothing and have at least one visible handgun on them. The windows of the SUV are tinted to an extent that cannot possibly be legal. They’ve been in the car for about three hours and Jon is pretty sure they’ve doubled back a few times so it’s hard to gauge where they are and where they're going.

The car comes to an abrupt stop and the man next to him grabs Jon by his upper arm and forces him out of the car with a gruff command. Jon considers struggling but thinks better of it when he realizes that the man is large enough that his fingers have wrapped all the way around Jon’s bicep. 

“Where are we going? I — this is LAX.”

“Yes, it is. Do you want a medal?”

“Are you taking me out of the country? That’s a bigger crime than even abduction.”

“You’re not getting on a plane. You’re getting into that car right there, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get in without putting up a fight.” 

“Why should I? Where are you taking me?”

“_ We _ aren’t taking you anywhere, the people in that car are, and you’ll do it because you don’t want a bullet in your head.”

Jon isn’t sure about the voracity of the threat but he’s not sure he wants to test the man’s patience. Jon keeps his hands behind his back as he walks to the new car, where one of the men is holding the door open for Jon to get in. As he slides into the backseat, Jon sees the two men in the front are separated from him by a taxi window that looks bulletproof. 

The man at the door goes to close it and Jon can’t help but call out, “You aren’t coming with me?”

The man laughs, but Jon isn’t sure what’s so funny. “No, we aren’t going with you. We’re just the delivery boys.”

The door shuts and the car instantly accelerates through the airport parking lot. The driver pays for their ticket with cash and then they’re off, taking Jon even farther from his chances of making it home. Through the fear, Jon suddenly snorts at a thought, “You know, it’s really rude to take me, to not only a secondary location, but a secondary vehicle. It's almost as if you don’t want me to be found. John Mulaney warned me about people like you.” Jon winces internally, ‘_ You can’t joke your way out of this one, Jon. These are mercenaries. They won’t fall for a few quips like some --” _

“You should have taken his advice and had some street smarts.”

“Hey! You do speak! And you’ve seen John Mulaney. He’ll be so happy to know that anyone can enjoy his comedy: people trying not to be abducted and abductors alike He really is universally beloved.”

“We were told you were funny, Mr. Lovett, but they didn’t tell us that you had no sense of self preservation.”

“I have a very healthy sense of self preservation. I’m ignoring it at the moment in favor of making jokes so I don’t panic.”

“Mr. Lovett, where we’re going, you may want to put the jokes away.”

“And why should I do that? Isn’t the whole point of an abduction and hostage situation to use me as leverage? Don’t you need me alive for that?”

“No. We don’t. We just need your fiancé to _ think _ you’re alive.”

Jon’s stomach sinks and he stares out the heavily tinted windows as he tries to control his breathing and racing thoughts, ‘_ I’m sorry, Ronan. I’m so sorry.’ _

* * *

Jon can’t believe he’s here. He can’t believe he’s been abducted to blackmail Ronan into not running a story but he also can’t believe that instead of taking him overseas the car stops in what can only be an abandoned warehouse in the Fabric District. All of that driving around and switching cars and they didn’t even leave LA.

They pull into an open garage in the warehouse and the driver tells Jon to get out. Jon opens the car door and, upon seeing that the garage door is still open, takes off at a sprint. He’s faster than people give him credit for, and he has a head start on his captives. He can hear shouts and pounding footsteps behind him. He’s almost there. He can see someone walking outside. He calls out into the evening light. He makes it to the way to the sidewalk outside of the warehouse and turns down the street. He doesn’t know what street he’s on or where he’s running to but he has to keep going. He has to get home. He has to --

His left leg gives out under him and a blinding pain envelops his head as his skull connects with the pavement. His ears are ringing and he can barely see straight as he sits up, blood dripping into his eyes and down his neck.

‘_ Oh, _ ’ he thinks, shockingly calm, ‘ _ That’s why my leg gave out.’ _

There’s a hole in his skinny jeans where a bullet grazed his left calf. The black fabric darkens further as it soaks with blood. Arms are suddenly pulling at Jon, lifting him from the pavement. Someone is yelling but Jon can’t make it out over the ringing in his ears and the pain clouding his mind. 

The voices come rushing in as Jon orients himself and realizes that he’s being carried back into the warehouse. He tries to kick and wriggle away from his captors, but his injuries hinder his movements and he can barely manage to let out a scream for help before the warehouse door closes, trapping him inside. 

“You should not have done that, Mr. Lovett,” a voice to Jon’s left chides, as a liquid is poured over his bleeding leg. He cries out and thrashes at the burning sensation. 

“_ Hold him down. He’ll bleed out if this isn’t bandaged properly _.”

More arms grab at Jon and hold him to the ground as he tries to struggle away. The pain in his leg is unbearable and the throbbing in his head is making him dizzy. A hand grabs at his leg and presses a ball of fabric against the wound, and Jon turns his head to the side, and vomits from the overwhelming dizziness and pain. He’s vaguely aware of a conversation happening around him. 

“_ Jeez boss, he doesn’t look so good. That head wound is bleeding almost as much as his leg. _”

“_ Someone knock him out! I can’t treat these wounds with him struggling like this. _”

Jon feels another sharp pain in his head and then nothing. 

* * *

Jon doesn’t know what time it is when he regains consciousness. He’s on a folding cot, in a windowless room, alone. He can hear voices outside of the room but there isn’t even a window in the door to see how many people are on the other side. He tries sitting up but the pain in his head is nauseating. He collapses back on the canvas of the cot and succumbs to the darkness again.

* * *

When Jon comes to for a second time, he’s not alone. 

A man is helping Jon into a sitting position, tilting his head so he can pour water down Jon’s throat.

“_ That’s it. You need to drink something. It’s been too long since you had any water and if you can’t eat then you need to drink.” _

Jon finishes the water before slipping back into unconsciousness. 

* * *

The third time Jon wakes he feels mostly lucid. He still isn’t alone, but this time no one is feeding him, rather a man is sitting in front of the door, methodically cleaning his handgun.

‘_ Well that’s not menacing at all,’ _ Jon thinks to himself, as he tries to muster the energy to sit up. He lets out a pained grunt as he eases himself upright, propping himself against the concrete wall the cot is pushed against. 

The man looks up in surprise, “Oh good. You’re awake,” he puts his gun back together with a practiced ease and leaves the room without further comment. 

Jon tries to call out and ask where the man is going, but all he can focus on is remaining upright and not passing out again — pretty simple in theory, but Jon can feel the darkness trying to pull him under. 

He can feel his leg pulsing under the bandages and tries not to jostle it too much as he hauls himself up. He almost collapses from the pain of putting weight on his leg but manages to breathe through it and hobble his way to the door. As he reaches for the handle, the door suddenly swings out, revealing the man who had been sitting with Jon.

“Come with me. Boss wants to see you.” 

He turns without another word, leaving Jon to brace himself for the journey to wherever “Boss” is. Jon tries his best to keep up, but after a hundred feet or so, he stops to lean against the hallway wall, closing his eyes and breathing through the pain. His leg is killing him but his vaguely blurred vision is what’s really worrying him about his condition. He knows he has to keep going, he’s in no position to fight his captors, and he has to at least find out what their plan for him is. He has to keep going. He has to get back home. He has to get back to Ronan. _ Ronan _. Ronan is —

“Hey man, we have to go. Boss won’t be happy if we’re late now that he knows you’re up.”

Jon breathes in deeply before replying, “I’m going as fast as I can. I’d like to see you walk with a barely treated bullet wound and what has to be a concussion.”

Jon hears the man sigh in exasperation before suddenly there’s an arm around his waist. He jerks and his head swims as he turns to the man, “Whoa there! I don’t even let my best friends get this close unless it’s a photo op — besides, I’m engaged.”

The man rolls his eyes, “We know you’re engaged. Your fiancé is why you’re here with a bullet wound and a concussion.”

Jon doesn’t know if it’s the concussion or just reflex, but he snipes, “I don’t see how it’s Ronan’s fault that you all chose to abduct me and hold me hostage. That feels like a ‘you’ problem.”

“Well either way it’s your problem now, isn’t it Mr. Lovett?”

Jon has to give him that.

* * *

“Boss” looks exactly like every Bond Villain put together and Jon is actually a little disappointed at how cliche this whole situation has been. Jon is sitting in a chair in a room facing Boss and a vague semicircle of what are clearly his minions. Jon knows he has to get Boss talking so he does what he does best: starts talking himself. 

“I just want you all to know that this is my first abduction and so far it’s been a bit disappointing. Sure I’m concussed and I have a bullet wound, but honestly? I would love to see some originality! I mean really, I wake up in a windowless concrete box, Mister over here is cleaning his gun and then _ leaves _ to let Boss know that I’m awake, and then I’m summoned to Boss, and Boss here looks exactly like a Bond Villain, down to the perfectly blown out hair and suit that screams, ‘ _ am I gay or just evil and I saw too many gay-coded villains growing up? _’ At least spice things up a little, boys! Make a man feel special, this is my first abduction, after all.” 

The men around Boss all look vaguely outraged, and more than one seem to be reaching for their guns, before Boss throws his head back and laughs. There’s nothing about the laugh that puts Jon at ease. 

“Jonathan Lovett, they told me you were funny but they also told me you were smart. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe that blow to your head really did jostle your brain too much. Only an idiot would be so stupid as to mock his captors who have demonstrated no qualms in causing them bodily harm. I didn’t take you for an idiot, Mr. Lovett.”

Jon tries not to let the words visibly affect him, but if the woozy feeling that comes over him is any indication, all of the color has drained out of his face. He tries to focus on his breathing — he’ll never get any information if he loses his head. 

“Mr. Lovett, do you know why you’re here?”

The question gives Jon a point to focus on and he replies, “Let’s say, for argument's sake, that I don’t."

Boss smiles, “I’ll let your feigned ignorance slide just this once, Mr. Lovett. You’re here because your fiancé has plans to publish a piece. Do you know the piece I’m referring to?”

“Ronan has written many pieces. He has more than one project going on at any given moment.”

“Well, this particular piece exposes some…less than savory elements of the national security world.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, and I’m sure it will not come as a shock to you that there are those of us who would prefer those elements stay hidden.”

“Makes sense. No one likes having their dirty laundry aired in public.”

“I knew you were smart, Mr. Lovett.”

“Thank you, but where do I fit into all of this?”

The smile stretches further across Boss’s face and Jon feels a shiver move down his spine. He has an inkling of why he’s here, but if he can keep Boss talking, maybe he can think of a way to get out of this, or give Ronan more time to find him. _ Oh shit, Ronan _ —

“You’re here as a deterrent. It is clear from your engagement, and how intensely Farrow and yourself have protected each other over the course of your relationship, that you are very important to Farrow. Any fool with an internet connection can see how vital you have been to Farrow’s success. He has spoken extensively about how you’re his rock, his moral compass, his partner in all things. You’re the first person he calls at any news, the person he had cosign on a bank deposit box of evidence, the person to whom he takes sources so they’ll feel safe while he interviews them, the person whose advice can make or break a decision. Mr. Lovett, you are his rock, and without you…”

The implications hang in the air, unsaid. 

Ronan is the strongest person Jon knows, but everyone has a breaking point. Jon tries to think about how it would feel if their roles were reversed: Ronan taken while Jon is left behind. He tries to believe he would be brave, but the idea of Ronan where Jon is now — injured and scared and alone, with no reason to believe he’s getting out alive — makes his stomach turn. 

Jon knows he has to get as much information out of this guy as he can -- he just has to keep him talking. The longer he talks, the less time they have to carry out their plans and the more time Ronan has to find Jon. 

“If you represent a national security entity that Ronan is investigating, why didn’t we leave LA? Wouldn’t it be smarter to leave the country?”

“What better place to hide you than the one city we were expected to leave? We dumped the van at LAX to throw law enforcement off our scent for awhile. The Feds are involved, if Farrow’s little plea on Twitter is any indication, so they’ll be looking all across the country for you and — ”

“Ronan was tweeting about me?” Jon blurts out as he feels his heart-rate go up and hope starts to blossom in his chest. Ronan is looking for him. Ronan has the Feds involved. Ronan is going to find him. He’s going to go home.

Boss looks annoyed at the interruption but he answers, “Yes. He made a little statement last night on social media. Your coworkers were also making a stink. As if tweets are going to release you. Foolish.”

It takes everything in Jon not to roll his eyes at Boss’s dramatic turn of phrase. Jon tries to focus on the positives and allows for the hope in his chest to grow slightly, knowing that Favs and Tommy are with Ronan, taking care of his fiancé and helping him until Jon is found. Ronan isn’t alone. 

“Wait. Yesterday? Ronan was tweeting yesterday? How long was I out? What day is it?”

Boss chuckles at Jon’s confusion, “It is Sunday morning, Mr. Lovett. You have been in and out of consciousness since Friday evening. We’ve been feeding you and giving you water, but we don’t expect you to remember that -- you weren’t very lucid even for the brief moments you were conscious.”

The news of his lost time washes over Jon, leaving him shocked, “So, I’ve been in your dubious care for almost two days?”

“Come now, Mr. Lovett. Have you not enjoyed our hospitality?”

“Oh yes, getting shot and concussed is exactly the level of service I receive at the _ Four Seasons _. I’ll be sure to leave a great review on Yelp when I get out of here.”

“Ah, yes, about that -- we still aren’t sure if you’re getting out of here alive, Mr. Lovett. What greater warning shot on young Mr. Farrow’s life than to take yours?”

Jon pushes aside the terror that grips him and draws on anger instead, “You won’t kill me. You can’t. If you kill me, then Ronan will have nothing to lose. You’ll have lost your only bargaining chip. So, what is your long term plan? You can’t keep me here forever, and even if Ronan agrees to not print the piece and hands over all of his research, how can you be sure that it won’t run anyway? How do you know that we won’t find you? Please. There’s no outcome here where you don’t end up dead or behind bars. Ronan won’t rest until I’m home. He won’t stop. Nothing you do or say will ever stop him.”

Boss’s face twists into something ugly and cruel and he opens his mouth to respond before sending his fist flying. Jon’s head jerks to the side, sending him out of the chair and crumpling to the ground, as his ears ring and lights flash behind his eyelids. He struggles to remain conscious and regain his footing, but the ground is swimming around him and he can barely keep his eyes open. His leg throbs where it was jostled in his fall and he knows that if he tries to put weight on it he’ll just fall back down. 

He vaguely hears Boss ordering the men standing around to get the camera ready but all Jon can do is breathe through the pain. He feels fresh blood dripping down his neck, joining the dried layers already caking his head. He flinches as hands grab him, forcibly hauling him into the chair. He feels his arms being pulled behind the back of the chair and tied securely. He knows he should fight — find some way to fight — but it’s all he can do to keep breathing and stay conscious.

Jon can hear Boss’s voice. His words are measured and calm, like he wrote them out beforehand, and Jon focuses on his breathing. In and out. In. Out. Breathing through the pounding in his head and the throbbing of his leg and the ache in his heart and the fear in his soul. He thinks of things that make him feel light. He thinks of Pundit and her sweet face barking at him for treats. He thinks of his nephew chasing Pundit around Steph’s backyard. He thinks of Ronan. Ronan, with his sunshine hair and infectious laugh. Ronan with his head in Jon’s lap, arguing with him about something meaningless. Ronan grabbing Jon’s face to kiss him so hard his toes tingle. Jon keeps breathing, keeps thinking of Ronan, until something catches his attention. His name.

“…and if you refuse to meet these demands, your Mr. Lovett, your Jonathan, might not make it back to you, and definitely won’t make it back in one piece.”

Jon jolts up, that inner fire raging again at the threat. This man is threatening Jon -- threatening Ronan. No one threatens his Ronan. Fuck the consequences. 

“Ronan! Baby, don’t do it. I’ll be fine! You can’t let them win! Don’t let them win! I love you so much, Ronan don’t let them win I - ”

A gun flashes in the corner of his eye and the butt crashes into his temple. 

* * *


End file.
